


The Giant Squid's Got Nothing On You

by twilightstargazer



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Clarke, F/M, Fluff, So many Harry Potter references, Social Media, morley for potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-07
Updated: 2016-09-07
Packaged: 2018-08-13 13:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7978429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twilightstargazer/pseuds/twilightstargazer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“That is what stalking is though, technically,” says Raven, stirring cinnamon into her coffee. She’s joined her today on her sketching run, and the cafe is packed to the brim. “And it’s not normal either. Soon enough someone is going to show him those drawings and then there’ll be a lawsuit on your hands. And I’m not going to bail you out.”</p><p>Objectively, Clarke knows she’s probably right, but she still can’t help but lift her chin determinedly and say, “He is not going to find it.”</p><p>She can barely hear her scoff in reply over the din of the cafe. “Yeah right,” says Raven, “The internet is forever, Clarke Griffin. He will find it eventually.”</p><p> </p><p>or, Clarke finds her new muse at the local cafe</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Giant Squid's Got Nothing On You

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is except that bob morley dressed up as james potter during dragon con, effectively ruining my life

The thing is, Clarke didn’t really make the conscious decision to become a Marauders’ era fan artist, it just  _ happened _ .

Although, to be fair, she did sort of bring it upon herself. She made a tumblr a couple years ago to showcase her art, and, in a bid to gain more visibility, offered to take requests for a couple of weeks. Being fairly new, she didn’t have that many followers and the lone response came in the form of someone asking her to draw James and Sirius on the motorcycle.

She’s a pretty big fan of the Harry Potter series, going to midnight releases as a kid and having them lined, covers worn and dogeared, at the top of her bookshelf, but she never really considered doing fanart for it. Or at all if she’s being honest.

Still, she presses on, doing some minor web searching to come up with the right references and styles, and then she’s off, sketching and colouring until she’s satisfied. She doesn’t really think much of it as she uploads it, sending it into the void of the internet with just a few clicks, and then goes about the rest of her day without sparing it a second thought.

It pretty much blows up overnight, her follower count jumping past a hundred, the image being reblogged and retweeted by what feels like everyone. Soon enough, more and more people jump into her inbox requesting more Marauder pieces, but what startles her, is the sheer amount of requests for James and Lily related things.

That is, James and Lily Potter. Harry Potter’s dead parents.

She knows the internet is weird place, but seeing the level of enthusiasm some people have for a couple long dead before the series has even started is… strange.

At least, it’s strange until she becomes one of those people herself.

(She’s just curious okay? After the first time she went and looked up some more fanart, which lead to her finding some Marauder centric blogs as well as fanfiction- including  _ The Life and Times _ which. Clarke’s still waiting for that to update two years later- and soon James and Lily Potter are dragging her down to hell.)

So she keeps drawing, keeps on reading fic and illustrating scenes, keeps on fangirling with her followers on tumblr, and soon enough, she’s dug herself into a hole that she can’t get out of.

“I’m just saying,” she tells Raven while she works on her newest piece of fanart. They’re in a fairly crowded cafe, and only just managed to grab a , “There’s something infinitely pure about a fandom who doesn’t have much besides three pages in the entire series.”

The other girl looks supremely unimpressed. “They’re not real. And even if they were real, they’d be dead.”

Clarke heaves a sigh, struggling to bundle her hair up in a messy bun. “Thanks Raven,” she says, flat, “You’re so supportive.”

She knocks her shoulder into hers with a grin. “Of course I am,” she says, grabbing both of their coffee cups, “If I wasn’t, do you really think I would offer to buy you another macchiato?”

The smile is more genuine this time as it unfurls across her face. “The best,” she amends, before quickly tacking on, “And one of those cherry pastries too, please!”

“What, do you think I’m made out of money or something?”

“I’m sorry, who’s working for NASA and who’s currently unemployed, only getting by because of fanart commissions?”

She could see the grin tugging at Raven’s lips, even as she stubbornly tries to hide it. “Yeah, yeah, fine, I see your point,” she sighs, and inconspicuously flips her off when Clarke blows her a kiss.

Once she’s out of sight, she goes back to her sketches and sighs, frowning slightly at it. It’s just basic line art at the moment, but for some reason, it feels off. She’s never found a proper face claim for James Potter, and while she’s pretty good at making things up off the top of her head, she’s never settled down with one fixed style of him. She likes to have  _ references _ , y’know?

Then there’s a sudden crash in the corner, garnering the attention of everyone in the cafe, causing Clarke’s head to snap up from the tablet and, well, it seems like it’s fate is trying to tell her something, isn’t it? 

A young girl is blushing furiously as she scrambles to fix the chair she bumped into, but that’s not what she’s paying attention to. No, Clarke’s far too preoccupied by the man behind her, flashing her an easy smile as he rights it back in place before sending her off on her way and rounding the table, the man who has a clunky pair of glasses that lay lopsidedly on the bridge of his nose, and hurricane hair sticking out every which way.

Her breath actually  _ catches  _ when he takes his seat, his face all hard planes and sharp lines in the evening sun, and Clarke practically scrambles for her stylus because this is just Too Much.

She has a hasty outline done and is working on perfecting the sculpt of his jaw by the time Raven gets back, so engrossed that she doesn’t even realise until she waves the newly made macchiato in front of her face.

Grinning sheepishly, she lowers her stylus just for a moment and takes the offered drink with a murmur of thanks.

Raven leans over, peering down at the screen with an inscrutable expression before saying, “He’s hot.”

She picks back up her tablet and sets to work on his hair, glancing up at the man ever so often. “He’s supposed to be,” she comments easily, trying to capture the wildness of his curls with her brushstrokes. 

“I meant the actual guy you’re drawing,” says Raven, “Which, isn’t this just a tad bit creepy?”

Clarke shrugs. “It’s only creepy if he finds out,” she says, “Which I don’t think is going to happen by the way. He’s on the other side of the shop.”

“You’re very obvious with your staring.”

She goes red. “Am not!” she hisses, immediately dropping her eyes because, yeah, okay maybe she was looking at him at that moment. She was just trying to get his hair as realistic as possible, alright?

And okay, maybe she got distracted by him gnawing at the top of his pencil too. But she wasn’t staring for too long.

Raven looks entirely too smug as she leans back in her chair, taking a dainty sip of coffee. “Whatever you say.”

-

**Anonymous asked:** your new drawing of james is the best one yet he’s so pretty i wanna cry

**griffindraws answered:** don’t worry anon i was crying when i saw him too

-

Clarke honestly means for it to be a one time thing. She doesn’t make it a habit of drawing people without their consent, but in this case the lighting was perfect and so was he, so she figured she could have made an exception.

The digital painting she does is one of James sitting hunched over in the library, like the man at the cafe, all rich colours and smooth lines, and she stays up til one a.m. blending and shading until it’s practically perfect before uploading it to her tumblr and other social media sites.

She wakes up the next morning to the piece already having more than two thousand notes, and dozens of messages jammed pack in her inbox, most of which are complimenting her on her new James style.

She replies to what she can, and then settles in to do some of her commissions, but her mind can’t help but wander to messy curled hair and tan skin and soon, she finds herself doodling the outline of his face on a spare napkin while she tries to finish up this piece she’s working on.

Her followers don’t help either, asking when she’s going to do another James drawing like that and, ‘omg could you do a close up? I would literally die.’

So that’s how three days later Clarke finds herself back at the cafe, caving to the desire.

She buys a large latte and settles into one of those squishy armchairs in the corner, doodling while trying not to feel foolish. He could very well not show up. After all, Clarke’s been coming here once a week for the past few months and she’s pretty sure she’s never seen him. She’s fairly certain that if she did, her drawing obsession would have started ages ago.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to feel like that for too long, because somewhere around 2:45, he comes in, hair windswept, glasses crooked, a fucking  _ messenger  _ bag slung across his broad chest, and Clarke feels her face heat up.

Today she’s sitting closer to him, almost obliquely opposite in fact, and she can see even more details of his face; like the crooked set of his nose which looks like it was once broken, impossible dark eyes slightly hidden by his frames, the curls which tickle his brow bone.

Clarke will admit that she probably spends far too long staring at him, but she can’t help it.

He’s  _ breathtaking _ .

She starts sketching around the same time he pulls out the books from his bag, heavy tomes that have her wrinkling her nose slightly, and she tries to imagine what he would look like in a Hogwarts robe. The shop isn’t as crowded today; in fact, there’re only three other people beside them, and by the time she’s ready to leave, that number has dwindled to one.

This time the drawing is a pretty simple headshot and she manages to finish it in one go, just neatening it up before posting.

After that Clarke gets… a little bit obsessed.

She would just like to put it out there that she’s not stalking him, okay? She just simply happens to be at the cafe around the same time he’s there, and on the same days too. That’s it. So what if this has been going on for almost an entire month and she knows exactly when he’s expected to come in. This is normal and everything is fine.

“That is what stalking is though, technically,” says Raven, stirring cinnamon into her coffee. She’s joined her today on her sketching run, and the cafe is packed to the brim. “And it’s not normal either. Soon enough someone is going to show him those drawings and then there’ll be a lawsuit on your hands. And I’m not going to bail you out.”

Objectively, Clarke knows she’s probably right, but she still can’t help but lift her chin determinedly and say, “He is not going to find it.”

She can barely hear her scoff in reply over the din of the cafe. “Yeah right,” says Raven, “The internet is forever, Clarke Griffin. He will find it eventually.”

“You’re a terrible friend.”

“I am an amazing friend, excuse you,” she sniffs dismissively, “Good friends tease each other when they have coffeeshop crushes that they do nothing but stare at. And draw incredibly detailed images of their hands.”

Clarke goes red, leaning forward and hissing, “I do not have a crush on him. Shut up. He’s just objectively beautiful.”

“You’re sketchpad has at least seven pages of his hands, Clarke. Just his hands. I’m worried.”

“Again, you’re a terrible friend. I don’t know why I even bother putting up with you.”

Raven opens her mouth to retort with another undoubtedly snappy comment, but she goes uncharacteristically silent, eyes gleaming as she looks at something behind Clarke’s shoulder. She frowns, and is just about to ask her what the hell is going on when someone clears their throat behind her.

“Sorry to bother you, but is that seat taken?” a voice asks, and Clarke grows stiff, glancing back at Raven who’s grinning like the cat who caught the canary.

“Not at all,” she says in a deceptively saccharine voice and a razor sharp grin. “Clarke, move your bag and let him sit.”

She’s going to murder Raven Reyes one of these days.

Face red and splotchy, she grabs her tote and pulls it to the ground, so that her James Potter lookalike can sit.

She catches a whiff of his cologne as he passes by, something earthy and deep, and has to bite her lip lest she fucking whimpers.

Raven is still grinning, and it’s beginning to look strange. Meanwhile Clarke is wondering if it’s possible to kill herself with a coffee straw.

“Thanks,” he sighs, sounding incredibly grateful. He flashes them a charming smile and she’s pretty sure that she actually  _ does  _ whimper this time. She can only hope that it’s lost in the noise of the cafe. “I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes, as soon as the storm lets up.”

She didn’t think it was possible for Raven’s grin to widen, and  _ yet- _

“Oh don’t worry,” she says, “You can stay as long as you want. In fact, you should stay and keep Clarke here company while I head off to work.”

Remember when she said she’s going to murder Raven Reyes one of these days? That day turns out to be tonight.

Clarke aims a kick at her under the table, and Raven, without even wincing, kicks her back, before pushing back her chair. 

He just smile gratefully once more and shrugs off his damn messenger bag. While he’s rooting around it, presumably for his textbooks, Clarke mouths ‘traitor’ at Raven, only to get a rather lewd hand gesture in return. A soccer mom two tables down looks on scandalised and she’s pretty sure Raven cackles as she ducks out of the shop.

“Thanks again,” he says, the tips of his ears pink. He can’t seem to meet her eyes as he boots up his laptop. “I really hope I didn’t bother you. You looked kind of busy.”

She was drawing a stylised banner of ‘Fuck the Patriarchy’ upon request so no, not really, but she nods along anyway. “It’s fine,” she says, once she finds her voice. 

This is the closest she’s ever been to him and now she can notice the little things, the dusting of freckles that coats every inch of his skin like little angel’s kisses, a curved scar above his upper lip, the way his grin is crooked when he smiles, rising higher on the left.

The first thought she has is that maybe Raven was right to be worried.

The second thought she has is ‘oh fuck, I want to draw him just like this.’ Just him. Not use him as her James Potter placeholder.

“I’m Bellamy by the way,” he says.

“Clarke.”

“Thanks again, Clarke.”

Smiling despite herself, she says, “That’s the third time you’ve said that.”

He ducks his head, grinning a bit sheepishly, and ruffles his hair. “Yeah, well, I mean, you’re a familiar face that just did kind of save me from having to ask a soccer mom or hipsters to share. You deserve it.”

She smiles again before part of his sentence catches up with him and her face twists into a puzzled frown. “Familiar face?” she asks, and watches as he goes from shy yet charming, to completely ashen in a matter of seconds.

“Um, I meant-  _ fuck _ ,” he hisses, swiping a hand across his face and upsetting his glasses. It’s endearing and she would have had to smother a giggle if her heart wasn’t pounding in her chest.

Did he notice her mild stalking? 

Fuck, did he notice her staring at him while sketching?

Before her mind can come up with an even more ridiculous scenario, he looks back up, ears and cheeks distinctly pink. “I just meant that I’ve seen you around here before. Doing whatever it is you do. Not that I keep tabs on you or anything like that,” he says, laughing nervously as his hand jumps to mess with his hair yet again, “Because I don’t. That would be weird. Please feel free to tell me to shut up at anytime.”

This time she does actually giggle, worry ebbing away bit by bit. “It’s fine,” she says, before biting her lip and very deliberately saying, “And the thing I do is art. I’m a freelance artist.”

She can practically see the tension roll out of his shoulders and he flashes her the crooked grin again as he pushes up his glasses. Clarke’s fairly certain she melts a little bit.

“I’m working on my masters,” he says, “History.”

She grins back at him, pulling her tablet closer and opening up a blank canvas to work on. “Cool,” she says, and he smiles back before the two of them lapse into silence.

It’s… companionable, which actually takes her by surprise. She’s known him for all of five minutes and yet she’s perfectly content to sit there and finish her artwork while he works on a paper.

She’s sorely tempted to draw him of course, but she’s sitting too close to actually do that without fear of him seeing it. Which is a damn shame, because she wants to do nothing more than trace his freckles, try and capture at least half of his beauty in ink.

When they leave, he gives her another smile, this one more confident than the others, and a half wave, leaving Clarke simultaneously awestruck while completely and unequivocally fucked.

-

**griffindraws** : actual irl james potter talked to me today. he effectively ruined my life. send help.

(57 notes)

-

Sitting with Bellamy becomes a regular occurrence and she’s not sure if she should laugh or cry. Probably both.

The longer they hang out, the more he seems to relax, showing her that he’s nothing more than an eighty year old grandpa stuck in a young and hot body. She tells him as much one day, and he grouses through the rest of their time together. Normally she would be concerned, but she can see the little smile he’s trying to hide. It does nothing to curb her infatuation with him; in fact, it seems to strengthen it.

The downside of sitting with him regularly means that she can no longer draw him properly, nothing more than hasty sketches. Her followers are slightly disappointed by the lack of James sketches but they're more than happy to laugh at how inept she is because of her crush.

“He's just so pretty,” she grumbles to Raven one night while they’re at the bar. She's trying to make it work with the cute new bartender that Gina hired a few weeks back, and Clarke is definitely aware that she's hindering her chances.

But she’s already several drinks in and Bellamy had the gall to show up today, not only with his glasses sitting lopsided on his nose and hair looking mussed as per usual, but while wearing a tight fitting maroon sweater with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. She had to deal with that for almost an hour, so yeah, Raven can listen to her complain for a while. After all, she’s the one who got her in this mess in the first place. She was more than happy to stare at him from afar, but now she’s left wondering if he’d look as good  _ out  _ of the sweater as he does in it.

(She used this as inspiration for a quidditch piece, and then cried about her life choices in the shower after, as one does.)

Raven glares balefully at her. “Please, don’t start. Your startling lack of competency when it comes to feelings is frightening,” she says, lips pursed.

Clarke just sways into her shoulder, burying her nose into the collar of her shirt with a soft whine. “But he is,” she gripes, “His stupid face is gorgeous, with his stupid freckles and stupid mouth, and he’s such a fucking nerd; like, do I care about Roman Centurions? No, not really, but he does and he likes to share with the class, going on and on while using his fucking hands which- that’s a whole other story right there because his  _ hands  _ Raven-”

“I am going to beat myself into unconsciousness if you don’t stop,” she warns, face pinched, “I really don’t want to know just how much you like his hands.”

“A lot. I like them a lot.”

There’s a dull thump as Raven drops her head onto the sticky surface of the bar. She doesn’t even bother to lift her head when the concerned bartender comes over to check on her, just mumbles into the granite, “Yeah, can I get like five shots of Absinthe? Or maybe just the whole bottle. I’m trying to forget that my best friend exists.”

-

**griffindraws** : crushes are dumb 0/10 do not recommend. help me internet. tell me what to do to get my james potter look alike to go out with me. i’m taking requests.

(49 notes)

**Anonymous asked:** yell it in front of the whole school and then fight a giant squid for his honour

**Anonymous asked:** tell him you wanna ride his broomstick

**Anonymous asked:** ‘you can use parseltongue to get in my chamber of secrets anytime’

**Anonymous asked:** Do I have to use Petrificus Totalus to get you stiff or can I try something else?

**Anonymous asked:** u dont have 2 say accio to get me 2 come ;) ;)

**griffindraws:** i am no longer taking requests. you all suck.

(92 notes)

**marauderette replied to your post** : nah we don’t. you should suck him tho

**griffindraws** : i hate the internet. goodnight

**-**

Everyone has those days when everything seems to go right. You find ten bucks on the sidewalk, your favourite store is having a sale,  your make up slays and your outfit belongs on the cover of a magazine.

And then of course there are the days that are the complete opposite of that. The Bad days.

Clarke is having one of those today.

Her alarm doesn’t go off, her foundation explodes all over her new top, she misses a meeting with a prospective new client, one of her old clients called her in because they want to redo their entire logo so she has to spend nearly three hours in a boardroom with condescending old men causing her to miss lunch, and then finally her mother calls and they get into the same old argument as to how a career in art has no future.

It’s a fucking shitty day.

At the end she stops by the cafe on her way home because all she wants to do is down a latte that’s sure to give her diabetes and gorge herself on sweets while curled up under her duvet, watching reruns of  _ How I Met Your Mother _ .

Of course, her shitty day isn’t up yet, for the moment she joins the queue, her bag splits open, spewing its contents everywhere.

She doesn’t even bat an eyelid, just stares at the mess for a few seconds, completely numb inside.

“You okay?” Bellamy asks, appearing behind her. His eyes are concerned behind his glasses and she just sighs, scrubbing a weary hand across her face.

“It’s been a long day,” she says, stooping to start picking up her things. He joins her a beat later, and Clarke has never realised just how much  _ crap  _ she has until it’s all scattered before her eyes.

Several dozen pencils and charcoal stubs, at least four different sketchpads, napkins, gum wrappers, keys… everything but the kitchen sink seems to have been in there, and she’s just blindly grabbing and throwing into the salvageable part of her bag, blushing as she keeps back the line. At least she’s lucky that her tablet case was held under her arm. If that had fallen out of her back, Clarke’s pretty sure she’d just lie down and wait for death right there.

Somewhere along the line she realises that Bellamy has stopped, but she still has a few things on the floor so she doesn’t pay him any attention until it’s all packed up. It’s only then she realises that he’s holding one of her sketchpads, which, normally she wouldn’t have been too concerned with- she’s shown him her art before, certain pieces, the ones that make her look like a sophisticated adult and not a person who draws a dead couple making out on her downtime- but this sketchpad has a floral cover that makes her stomach drop.

Because the floral sketchpad is the one she uses for people.

More specifically, the one that’s half filled with drawings of him, both as Bellamy and James.

“Fuck.”

She gets up to her feet shakily, face flaming, and unable to meet his eyes.

The longer he doesn’t say anything, the more she wants the earth to open up and consume her. She doesn’t even bother staying in the line, just grabbing her stuff and moving to the side. If he’s going to call her out for being a creep, she’d rather he do it in the corner where no one would be paying attention to them.

“I should have told you before,” she blurts out, wringing her hands nervously in front her. She still can’t seem to meet his eye and she’s pretty certain that if he doesn’t say anything soon she’s going to have a complete freak out. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he says, dazed.

For some reason it makes her wince. “If it helps, you’re a really good subject to draw. I mean, it’s got all the different elements of art in there, which is hard to find in something, much less a person, and your face is interesting, it’s interesting and-”

“Clarke,” he says, a smile tugging at his lips, “Breathe.”

She sucks in a deep breath, and the smile spreads itself across his face fully.

“I’m not mad,” he tells her, and she can feel her shoulders loosen in relief. “I just didn’t expect- I can’t believe you’re inspired by  _ me _ .”

She snorts in a rather unladylike manner. “Yeah trust me,” she says wryly, finally meeting his gaze, “It’s all I’ve been doing since I first saw you all those months ago. I uh, hope that doesn’t freak you out even more.”

That seems to startle him, and Clarke squints at his face, trying to get a read on him. He doesn’t look freaked out, more gobsmacked than anything else and- is that a smudge of pink at the tip of his ears?

The colour works it’s way down to his cheeks, and soon enough, Bellamy Blake is standing before her, blushing and staring at a scratch on the tabletop instead of her face.

He’s  _ embarrassed _ .

Delighted, Clarke can’t even contain her grin as she takes a few steps closer to him and gently pries the book from his hand. She flips back a few pages until she comes to the one of him hunched over his laptop, surrounded by books.

“This is the first sketch I did,” she says, “The lighting over there by the windows? Fucking brilliant.” She flips through a few more pages, showing him the slapdash sketches, some no more than a few scribbles, and valiantly tries to keep a hold on the anxiety gnawing at her from the inside out.

The only thing that keeps her going is the pretty flush across his tan skin and the fact that he glances up at her every few seconds in awe before hastily averting his eyes.

She doesn’t mention that she later turned it into fanart, that’s something she rather not touch on, but the moment the thought crosses her mind, she flips the page and lands on a hastily done charcoal rubbing of James in quidditch robes.

They both freeze, and whatever sense of composure she found a few minutes ago quickly fades into bubbling unease.

“Um,” she starts, “I can explain.”

He frowns at it for a moment, eyes roving across the page before a grin breaks out on his face. “Is that- did you draw me as  _ Harry Potter _ ?”

“James Potter actually,” she says weakly and he  _ laughs _ , honest to good laughs.

“You know,” he says, a hint of a smirk playing around his mouth, “Most people wouldn’t directly jump to Harry Potter’s dead father, but you do you I guess.”

“You’d be surprised at how many people actually do,” she says, still tomato red. “The internet is a very strange place.”

He lifts a single eyebrow and looks down at her over the top of his glasses, mirth still evident on his face. “Oh really?”

Clarke ducks her head for a moment, trying to find a shard of courage to grasp on to. Steeling herself, she looks back at him. “How much is too much creepy for you?”

“I’ll let you know when you get there.”

“Right,” she says, taking a breath, “So I’ve drawn you.”

“Yep.”

“I’ve drawn you many times. Mostly as a reference for James Potter.”

“Weird, but not creepy. Go on.”

“You look just like how I picture him in my head, okay,” she tells him, “I may or may not be a relatively popular Marauders’ era fan artist on tumblr. Relatively.”

He blinks. “Still not creepy. I figured most kids are involved in those kind of things.”

She has to bite back a smile. “You do realise that you’re only four years older than me right? You can’t exactly separate yourself from ‘us kids.’ Stop trying to be a grandpa.”

“Shut up,” he says with no heat behind it. “Anyway, you were telling me about your internet fame. Have I been in the presence of a celebrity all this time? Should I have asked you to sign my napkin?”

There’s no holding back her smile this time and she knocks her shoulder into his. “Dick,” she says, fondness seeping through, “I’m not the one the come for anyway, it’s all my James drawings. Besides it’s just a couple thousand followers.”

“Oh well if it’s just a couple thousand,” he says, dry, and she knocks into him again.

“If you’re going to be a dick about it, I’m not telling you about how the internet thinks you’re gorgeous,” she sniffs, and he grins.

“No, no, tell me all about your famous dead people blog,” he says, and when she goes to knock into him for the third time, he catches her around the waist, causing her to stumble against his chest. He’s still grinning when he leans his forehead against hers, and Clarke bites her lip as she looks up at him. “I’m all ears to hears about how gorgeous the internet thinks I am,” he murmurs, “I promise I’ll be good.”

“You’re such a bastard,” she huffs, though there’s no way she can hide her smile from him, not when he’s standing so close to her and holding her like that. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Yeah? And what’s that?” he asks, his thumb dipping beneath the hem of her t shirt for a second and her brain short circuits.

“You- you’re distracting me,” she breathes, and he does it again, humming.

“You think I’m distracting, Griffin?”

“I think you’re reprehensible,” she says, voice shaky.

He does it again, this time ghosting it across her skin. “Really? Go on.”

“Terrible.”

His nose brushes against her cheek as he gives her just the barest hint of a butterfly kiss. “Mmhmm.”

“Totally and irrevocably loathsome.”

He’s so fucking close, all she needs to do is rock forward on her feet to close the gap between them, to finally get a taste of his fucking mouth, the same one that’s always curved in a smirk or a crooked grin.

“I bet,” he says, practically in the crook of her neck.

“Bellamy,” she whimpers, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his t shirt.

“What else do you think of me, Clarke?” he asks, hand coming up to cup her jaw.

She takes a deep, shaky breath. “I think if you don’t kiss me right this moment then I’m going to stab you with a fork.”

“Rude,” he says, his grin as crooked as ever as he leans forward.

His lips are chapped against hers, moving tentatively at first despite all his talk before, and she finds herself scrambling to hold on to his shoulders for purchase, fairly certain that if she doesn’t have anything to anchor her, she just might float away. He tastes like cinnamon and sunshine, and Clarke’s fairly certain she whimpers when his tongue brushes against the seam of her mouth the first time.

When they pull apart, the grin he’s wearing just might crack his face in half.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he confesses, nuzzling against her cheek, and she can only nod, head still in the clouds. “Ever since I saw you all those weeks ago. And then I thought I botched it up when I came over to share a table.”

“You definitely didn’t,” she reassures him, “I’ve wanted this for a while too. I’ve cried to Raven about it. She threatened to disown me.”

“And you dealt with your crush by drawing me as a fictional character and posting it on the internet,” he surmises, “Got it.”

“Excuse you,” she says, “I was drawing you as a fictional character and posting it on the internet before I got a crush on you, get your facts straight. The crush was more of a side effect.”

“Oops, my bad,” he says, and she can taste the happiness on his lips when he leans forward to pluck a quick kiss from her.

“So,” he says, still smiling from ear to ear. He looks positively ridiculous, but Clarke can’t fault him, not when she’s fairly certain she looks the same way. “Tell me about my legions of fans on the internet.”

She squeezes his hand. “There’s so many, oh my god…” 

-

**griffindraws** :  _ how 2 get ur crush 2 date you _ \- a guide by clarke

1\. stare at them from afar in a cafe while crying because of how beautiful they are  
2\. use them as your new art reference while still staring from afar and crying over their beauty  
3\. somehow get them to share a table with you at the cafe (note meddling friends might help)  
4\. continue to cry over their beauty. cry even harder because they’re a beautiful nerd who you want to make out with  
5\. have a near meltdown because they learn that you draw them all the fucking time (important!!!)  
6\. let it all culminate in to furious necking behind a plant at the cafe  
7\. get kicked out of the cafe with a stern warning because there are children present (optional)

nb: handjobs while driving might be fun in theory. not so much in actuality. don’t worry the car is ok

nb2: have safe sex y’all

(128 notes)

-

“I can’t believe you have a James Potter costume on hand,” he says, tugging on her wig while she struggles to knot his tie.

Clarke bats his hands away impatiently. “It’s not a James Potter costume, it’s just a Gryffindor uniform. Saying it like that makes me feel better about my life choices.”

“Uh huh,” he smirks. He pulls on her wig again, this time successfully dislodging it, and she squawks indignantly. “My girlfriend is a nerd.”

She scrambles to right it, glancing in the mirror to make sure it’s straight, before turning back to scowl at him. “You’re one to talk,” she says, rumpling his collar a little bit. She steps back to give him a critical once over. It’s nothing more than Gryffindor tie and Hogwarts robe over his own shirt and slacks, but with the wand she made for him, hair its regular old mess and glasses askew, he looks like he stepped out of her James album.

It’s a pretty good luck on him, she must say.

“I can’t believe you’re making us dress as James and Lily,” he says, “And on Halloween, no less.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure we’ll get out of this alive,” she says wryly, fixing her own tie. “Come on, let me get a few pictures.”

“Oh yes, we mustn’t let your fans down,” he says, pushing off her desk.

“Technically they’re your fans. You’re the new James Potter. They want you to break up with me and get a redheaded girlfriend.”

He wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her against his chest as she opens the camera app. “Tell them to deal with it,” he says, dropping a quick kiss to her temple as she takes the first picture. “I don’t need anyone else besides you.”

-

**Anonymous asked:** you and your irl james potter are the actual cutest #couple goals

**griffindraws answered** : he’s a fucking dork and i love him

 

**Author's Note:**

> Come cry with me on [tumblr](http://hiddenpolkadots.tumblr.com/)


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